


Falling is easy… it's the landing that's hard

by blahblahbertha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Hospitalization, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 12:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19173421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahbertha/pseuds/blahblahbertha
Summary: A re-imagining of what happened after the Reichenbach fall: that Sherlock did jump, taking the risk that he would die; and that Moriarty's death triggered a failsafe, bringing Sebastian Moran into play to take over his enterprises and ensure Sherlock's death.(So far, there are four chapters pre-written, with an estimated minimum of… say… sixty total to cover the story arcs I have in mind?)





	1. the cold, hard ground

**Author's Note:**

> This work includes medical details (though not gory ones, just realistic ones, with more intense ones glossed over) and injury!angst and comfort.
> 
> It's more an exploration of John's psyche than Sherlock's, which I think makes sense since Moran is his nemesis where Moriarty is Sherlock's.
> 
> Since Moriarty is dead at this point, Moriarty/Moran is only in flashbacks. 
> 
> I originally conceived of this plot as a one on one role-play (if you don't know what that's all about, you're missing out) that my partner abandoned partway through. So although all the writing and the original concept is mine, it still feels appropriate to credit Liz V.

Dread filled John's chest as he caught on, Sherlock hanging up the phone. “SHERLOCK!” He panicked and plunged straight across the busy street.

Boom. A bicycle knocked him to the ground. His ears were ringing but he had to get up, had to get to Sherlock. "Please let me through, I'm a doctor." Arms blocked him. "He's my friend. He's my friend." Once they let him, he checked Sherlock's pulse. Yes! He choked out a sob. Medics tried to load Sherlock into the ambulance, but John clung on.

"I'm sorry I didn't say sooner. I wanted- it was stupid. I love you."

The medics pulled him away. "Please," John begged, "I have to go with him. Let me go with him." They ignored him and his mind cleared a bit, latching onto an idea. "Let me on or risk his life. I'm an army doctor and I know how to deal with trauma."

Sherlock's vitals were wobbly, his breathing labored and his pulse thready. "Oh, God, Sherlock, no," John whispered and then pursed his lips, pulling himself together. Sherlock gasped for air, his windpipe going to one side. "It's a pneumothorax. His left lung is collapsed." Outside the ambulance it seemed the whole world was exploding. He couldn't tell if his head was still ringing or if shells were falling outside. He looked around for a syringe and grabbed a large-bore needle, plunging it into Sherlock's chest, breathing a silent sigh of relief as a rush of air reinflated the lung and Sherlock's lips… his blue lips regaining their color. It wouldn't last long– John was sure he had internal bleeding– but it would get him there.

They'd nearly reached the nearest A&E when John realized he should telephone Mycroft. He punched the number in before he could change his mind. Mycroft had failed Sherlock. But so had he. John should've seen this coming.

Of course Mycroft knew which hospital. John should have guessed. "We're pulling up now." He hung up.

Sherlock was carted to the operating theater via radiology for scans, and John was left to mill about in a waiting room. He wondered if Mycroft was here yet. John thought about looking for him but decided not to. If they came with news… Now was the time for introspection. An old building, not that tall, and although there was bleeding from the ears, indicating a skull fracture, that didn't mean there was a brain bleed. Sherlock could well be fine. If only. 

Hours passed before a surgeon came. John stood up. The doctor shook her head. His legs fell out from under him, dropping him into a chair, and he sobbed into his hands. She apologized and left. He felt hollow inside. He felt angry. The world… he felt… oh, Sherlock, why? He wiped his eyes before staggering out of the waiting room, numb. 

Slowly, he looked around, and caught a glimpse of Mycroft, who looked shaken. John walked over. “Mycroft. What are you still doing here?" 

_Oh, Sherlock… please, don't…don't be dead._ John had wasted so much time pretending they were just friends, pretending not to be in love with Sherlock – knowing he'd be rejected, knowing there were those who could never understand, caring about things that didn't even matter. And now he might never have the chance- words to an unconscious body outside an ambulance were… better than nothing– not nearly enough. 

_One more miracle, for me,_ John thought to himself.


	2. ships passing in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out Sherlock's status at the hospital.

John squared his shoulders and tried to look stoic, though it seemed as if even Mycroft's veneer was chipped today. Mycroft held his umbrella, staring at a hospital directory as if it could give him answers, and nodded to acknowledge John's presence though he wouldn't meet his eyes.

He knew they were- they'd been- close, despite their childish feud, or what John would call sibling rivalry. What a childhood that must've been– but this time the thought pinched. Sherlock would never tell him more now. Not that he was the fondest, no; what was the use of talking about the past? Although he did take any opportunity to mock his brother. 

John watched Mycroft carefully. If anyone was to blame… if anyone was to blame… He wanted to blame Mycroft for the mistakes he had made, but didn't they all hold some part of the blame? Even Sherlock. And after all, Mycroft had asked John for help, told him in his own way about his mistake. Looked to John to right it. John pursed his lips, trying and somewhat succeeding at holding it all inside.

'Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.' John frowned and nodded. Wasn't it ever, today? Sherlock's note. John knew he'd done it to protect the very few people he cared for. Self-sacrifice: had he even thought Sherlock was capable of it? Most people saw the ego, the show-off, but John had seen a glimmer of something else. Just like he had when Moriarty had strapped him to that bomb. The wince in Sherlock's face, his willingness to blow it all to pieces. Did even Mycroft know Sherlock as well as he had?

Who could ever tell what Mycroft knew? 'A minor position in the British government,' like hell.

"Mycroft…" his voice wavered and he cleared it. "Mycroft." He should tell him, say again all he'd done wrong, say something to fill this awful silence. There was no reason not to. Sherlock was the only tie that bound them. Then again, there wasn't any reason to say anything now either. "I need to go. I assume you'll tell me-" his voice constricted and he coughed, "hm," pinching the bridge of his nose, "-when the funeral will be."

Sherlock's brother finally spoke, his voice as polished as ever. "First, I would like you to follow me," Mycroft instructed.

John's face twisted. "Why should I?"

"I suppose you'll have to follow me to find out."

John frowned. He didn't owe Mycroft a damn thing, not help in clearing his brother's name nor anything else. Still, he was a bit curious. What did Mycroft want with him? He'd have to follow to find out. "Alright," he agreed.

Mycroft took off, a steady and long stride that was surprisingly quick. Wordlessly, he led John towards the morgue, stopping John's heart cold, before bringing him out a side door to a waiting black car. Yes, that would be Mycroft. They drove for a while, and after they reached the outskirts of London, John asked, "Where are we going, exactly?"

"A ways out of town. Don't worry, I've sent someone to collect some clothes of yours, as you won't be returning to the flat for a while."

John ground his teeth. It was hardly an answer, and he didn't like being 'held hostage' – though that was a figure of speech this time.

"I need to make some calls," Mycroft announced. "Feel free to help yourself to the mini-bar." He pushed a button and a sound-proof divider rolled up between them. With nothing else to do, John did explore the mini-bar, but decided he'd keep his wits about him for whatever was going on.

It was quite a while before they pulled up to a simple-looking multi-story building. Upon entry, however, they required ID verification and a metal detector scan. Once they cleared the main lobby, it became exceedingly clear that it was a hospital, though up-scale and private. "What is this place?"

"Nearly there," answered Mycroft, leading him into a room with the wheeze of a respirator and the steady beat of a heart monitor. There he was. Leads covered his bare chest, monitoring his heart rhythm; a tube came from between his ribs to compensate for the collapsed lung; and another tube led from his throat to the ventilator. A line in his arm was hooked to a blood transfusion and some morphine, and a pulse ox on his finger tracked oxygenation and pulse. But all those complicated factors, the tubes and wires that made the larger-than-life man seem so small, amounted to one thing.

Sherlock was alive.


	3. the waiting is the worst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft wait for Sherlock to wake up

John's hands shook as he looked over Sherlock's pale body. "Mycroft," he gasped. Was this possible? Was it a fantasy? Or a break with reality? John reached out to grasp the end of the hospital bed for support. No. The firm sensation of it brought him back down to earth. No. It was real. If anyone could pull this off, it was the Holmes boys. "I should've known you'd be in on something like this."

"If only I had been," Mycroft answered, staring into the distance. "I negotiated his transfer here after the switch, obviously, but this was all planned between my brother and Miss Hooper."

"Molly Hooper, really?" John asked. "Well, she's quite smart, I suppose," he mused, bewildered. He could see how much this troubled Mycroft as well. But it wasn't just Molly– or really her at all– whose behavior bothered him.

John reached to the end of the bed, picking up the chart. "Paper charts?" He glanced up at Mycroft.

"No digital trail," Mycroft answered. "Perhaps… perhaps you could tell me what it really means?"

"Alright." John sat in the chair at the foot of the bed, nodding to himself as he reviewed the chart. Mycroft sat as well while he waited for John to finish reading. "The chest tube was inserted successfully after I reinflated his lung. He had a simple fracture of his left arm, which they've put a cast on. They also had to do exploratory abdominal surgery to find the source of bleeding, repairing a laceration to his liver. His spine wasn't involved and although he has a linear skull fracture, there's no bleeding into his brain, so that's a good sign."

"But?" Mycroft asked quietly.

"In an injury like this one, there can be shearing." John went silent for a long time, long enough to almost make Mycroft ask. "We won't know until he wakes up."

The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and puffing of the ventilator filled the silence, and John lost track of how many times he'd read the chart, as if it could tell him anything more– as if it could predict the future. Together, he and Mycroft waited. They waited until Sherlock was breathing on his own but still lying still under the sheet and blanket. They waited.

"This extended wait is not a good sign, I take it?" Mycroft asked.

"A bit not good, yeah," John answered the wrong brother, "but we're not to the end of the road yet. Let's give it a bit more time, alright?"

They waited another couple hours when those icy blue eyes slid open, moving around the room, and Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible. Both of them were up like a shot, by Sherlock's side instantly. "Hey, Sherlock," John said, "it's John and Mycroft. We're here. Now, I know you're in a lot of pain, but," John's voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Can you say something for me? Anything."

Sherlock mumbled something else.

"A little more clearly. You can do it Sherlock." 

Mycroft brought his hand to his face, terse.


	4. more than air between us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wants to explain to John.

"John," Sherlock managed. "Mycroft."

It was far from the discursive sentences Sherlock was known for. Mycroft glanced meaningfully at John. "It's a good sign," he whispered with a nod. He spoke to Sherlock again in a normal voice. "You're in hospital, Sherlock," he explained, "after jumping off the roof of St. Bart's."

Sherlock licked his lips. "Ohh," he answered, lightbulb going off. "Then I take it my plan worked?"

Relief washed over John and Mycroft. 

Sherlock did a quick internal assessment. Ribs: fractured. Lung: collapsed and reinflated. Left arm: broken and in a cast. Skull fracture. He should recover in 6 to 8 weeks, with full range of activities within three months.

"Well, seeing as you're fine," Mycroft interrupted, "I've got some phone calls I've been dodging. I'll leave you two to… whatever it is you two get up to." He swept from the room before John could even ask what that meant.

It wasn't a full neuro exam, but it would do until Sherlock had a chance to rest. John turned to update the chart, not noticing until he'd already turned away that Sherlock had grasped his sleeve. "John," he rasped. "It _did_ work, then?" Sherlock couldn't keep the images of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of his head.

"Yes, I suppose," John answered, putting himself behind the chart like a shield. "I just– Sherlock, how could you? You could have died. Or, or…" he couldn't quite get it out. Brain injury was highly common in this sort of case. He could have damaged that egotistical brilliance that he lorded over everyone. "You and Mycroft and your bloody secrets! Don't you think I could've helped, that together we could have come up with something better than a near-suicide? No, of course not, because no one else is as bloody brilliant as the great Sherlock Holmes!" 

"You don't understand." Sherlock's hand fell by his side. He didn't reach for John again.

"No, how could I? I'm just like the rest of them, flaccid-minded, or whatever the hell you call it."

"No, I–"

"Except Molly Hooper, apparently–"

"He was going to _kill you!"_ Sherlock protested, loudly enough it brought on a fit of coughing and gasps of pain from his jostled ribs. 

John returned to Sherlock's side instantly, resting a gentle hand on his chest. "Easy, easy." His voice was soft again.

"I… couldn't… only Molly…" Sherlock wheezed.

John pulled out an oxygen mask and fixed it over Sherlock's face. "Don't try to talk for now. Sorry for agitating you; I'll go so you can get some rest." Sherlock grabbed his arm, mouthing 'no' behind the mask. "Alright," John agreed. "I'll stay here. It's alright." Sherlock nodded and let him go to pull a chair up close, his eyes already sliding shut.

When Sherlock woke, a little more rested, he looked around and saw John slumped in his chair. He had to explain. He needed to. Tearing the mask off, he called out, "John. John!"

John jolted awake. "Sherlock. You okay?"

"He had snipers on you. Moriarty. If I'd even asked for help, he would have known. Only Molly was safe." John stood up, trying to hush him again, but Sherlock shook his head. "Let me finish, _please_." John froze. Please. This wasn't like the other times, like when he was begging him for cigarettes. It wasn't a demand. John backed down, hovering gently. "I had to jump, and my death had to look real, or Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and you… my best friend–" It was the wrong word and Sherlock regretted it the instant it left his lips.

John backed away. Best friend. Yes, of course. That was it, wasn't it. He plastered on a smile. To be called Sherlock Holmes' friend, that meant a lot. And it was all he was ever going to get. He had been a fool to ever fantasize about more. "Of course. I understand." His shoulders stiffened and he went impassive. 

Sherlock's eyes began to water, watching John, warm, open John, draw away from him like this. "Alright, Sherlock, you need to put the oxygen back on," John instructed.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted.

"No, you're not. Here we go," John moved the mask back over his face. "Now, rest, or I'll sedate you."

Sherlock harrumphed. "One– one last thing. It isn't over with Moriarty."


End file.
